Vampire: The Requiem - Bloodlines
by SummersonMars
Summary: A retelling of Bloodlines with Requiem's ruleset. One of the primogen of Los Angeles is executed, leaving a power vacuum and his clueless childe to navigate the city's tumultuous political landscape on her own.
1. The Luckiest Man in Los Angeles

**Disclaimer:** _Vampire: The Masquerade: Bloodlines_, _Vampire: The Requiem_, and all of the things that went into them were created by White Wolf Publishing and Troika Games. The rest is my doing.

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**1: The Luckiest Man in Los Angeles**

Andrew McCray was a very lucky man.

That was one of the reasons why he was a darling of the First Estate. Every member of the Invictus wanted power. If they already had it, they wanted more of it. If they had all the power that they could stand, they wanted to keep it. Andrew, or Alder McCray as he was more commonly known, just so happened to have a knack for getting people what they wanted. As anybody who knew him could tell you, you could give him the most seemingly impossible task and he would somehow pull it off through sheer brain power, the power of money, or the power of dumb luck, all of which he had in spades. Some of his fellow covenant members were baffled at that last asset, but at the end of the night, he always got the job done and they and him got what they both wanted. What was the point in questioning something that worked?

He wasn't always so lucky however. His parents were the offspring of Irish immigrants who fled from the country during the Great Famine of the mid 1800s. In the Americas, they found themselves toiling in factories in Baltimore, Maryland instead of on farmland outside of Baltimore, Munster. As there was little chance of advancement for someone of their social class, it appeared that he was destined for the same fate. This only changed when he met his sire: a former slave who himself got a run of good luck and freedom to go along with it. The two just happened to be frequenting the same bar in Philadelphia at the same time and they hit it off. He showed him a couple of tricks and a world of opportunity opened up in Andrew's mind. He could start a new life (or whatever passed for one for his kind) for himself; new city, new story. And he could do it in the most prominent city in America with the help of the most illustrious of kindred institutions. Shortly after he arrived in New York City, he learned that the Invictus would give titles and status to a bum fresh off the street if an elder of high esteem thought that they were useful enough. And as it has been mentioned, Andrew's talents were quite useful.

It was also in New York City that Andrew met the Duke of Los Angeles. Andrew was introduced to Alder LaCroix in the 30s, back when he was a rising star fresh off a plane from London and encircled with rumors. A few of those rumors were troubling, but he managed to rise up in the ranks and earn a few titles for himself nonetheless with Andrew's help.

Unfortunately, as the decades wore on, the future duke appeared to hit a glass ceiling of sorts and set off for the west coast, taking a few of his personal inner circle with him. (In truth, some of his so-called inner circle only went because Andrew had gone along, but no one would dare admit that to anyone else.) There was a First Estate to welcome them, but it was small and hardly influential. Los Angeles was the domain of the Carthians and had been for many decades. It would take a lot of wheeling and dealing and maybe even a bit of killing to dislodge their death grip on the city. Fortunately, such things were the specialties of many in the First Estate. By the dawn of the new millennium, Los Angeles was an Invictus city, a few rogue neighborhoods notwithstanding. Among other things, Andrew was given domain over a few neighborhoods and a place on Alder LaCroix's council of primogen for his numerous efforts.

But with power and status came people who wanted to take it from him. It was common knowledge that he was a popular person. More popular than the duke, in fact. Why, some people asserted that he had done more to take the city for the covenant than the self-proclaimed duke had. The duke had noticed as well, and rumors were flying from the mouths of the harpies about what he was planning to do about his political rival. Of course, the duke dismissed such nonsense. Why would he waste his time on such frivolous matters? Why would he want to remove a loyal and respectable member of the community? He had a city and a business to run. He didn't have time to speculate and worry about the personal requiems of other kindred like they did. And so on.

Still, there was a noticeable tension in the air between the two. Maybe it was just pressure from the harpies trying desperately to find some new scandal to gossip over, or maybe Alder LaCroix really did see him as a threat and he wasn't imagining the somewhat frosty receptions he received during court. Either way, it seemed to him that the two of them were going to have a hard time co-existing in the same city. Though the duke was far older than him (assuming he wasn't lying about his age) and could easily destroy him if their rivalry turned physical, Andrew had a large amount of favors that he could cash in to several other powerful kindred in the city. But no, the wheeling and dealing had grown boring. LaCroix could run his reputation and city into the ground by himself. Andrew was just going to pack a bag, take Jojo, and head to Las Vegas.

Jojo wasn't aware of the plan though. She wouldn't be until he was ready to leave out of necessity.

Jojo, much like Andrew, had had a pretty unlucky mortal life. From what she had told him, he knew that she grew up in a trailer park in Nevada with her deadbeat mother and mostly absent father. She came to the area with her friends to look for a big break, as many transplants to the LA area had before them. They had a band, she said. Unfortunately, no record label had shown even the least bit of interest in them, so they were living paycheck to meager paycheck in a rundown, cramped, and roach infested apartment. The two met in a bar a few months ago, and she proved to be good company. The change would be good for her, and it would be nice to have someone who was local to the area to help him get situated. You didn't need to be a genius or have the backing of someone with a lot of power and money to get ahead in life (or unlife), just a good bit of luck.

Especially in Vegas. Making a fortune in Vegas was all luck.

The night that he was going to leave got off to a rocky start. Jojo was surly when she met up with him, having gotten into a fight with the rest of the band over skipping practice to come see him. But once he got some food and booze in her, she perked up considerably. They went to Madam Voerman's night club, agreed that everything about it was terrible, and checked into a motel in Santa Monica for some private time.

The sex was a little sloppy, but great. She didn't resist when he told her that he wanted to show her something that wasn't his dick, and didn't struggle when he drained her dry. No one ever did. That was the great thing about the kiss.

But then, he hit a snag. Jojo had had way more to drink than he had anticipated, and it hadn't finished going through her system, so her inebriation had passed on to him along with all of her blood. He stumbled out of bed, pulled his clothes on, and sat down in a nearby chair, hoping that she would wake up quickly and that the room would stop spinning before someone caught them.

The second he thought that, the Reeve and his men broke into the room and shoved a stake through his heart.

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**Author's Note:** This is something I've been sitting on for months, largely because I have little idea of how to make the sarcophagus plot work with _Requiem_'s ruleset and fluff. But either way, here's a nice musing about a potential sire for the PC to start.


	2. The One Left Behind

**2: The One Left Behind**

The first thing Jo Palmer noticed when she woke up was that she was really hungry.

The second thing she noticed was a man leaping onto her with a wooden stake in his hand.

She didn't have enough time to realize that she was being attacked, nor did she have the opportunity to dwell on it immediately after. There was nothing immediately after that. It was as if whatever it was that happened had sent her to sleep. She may have even dreamed a little. Vague snippets of half formed red scenes floated through her unconscious; weak dreams that faded from her memory as quickly as they formed.

After who knows how long, she finally came to... and immediately wished that she could go back into the strange sleep-like state that she had just been in.

She was knelt on what appeared to be the stage of the Nocturne Theater, an old theater in downtown Los Angeles that she and her friends had been in once to see a concert. It was decorated in the same red and gold scheme and looked just as run-down as it did when they were there a few months ago, sans all of the discarded food, drink cups, and other concert garbage that people couldn't be bothered to properly throw away. Someone was holding onto the back of her neck and she was surrounded on all sides by people, with Andrew kneeling on her right. He was fully dressed, but she was as naked as the day she was born. Not that she worried much about that. There were much more important things to focus on.

Like the dozens of monsters sitting in the audience and standing along the walls.

They didn't look like monsters. On the outside, they just looked like a bunch of normal people; people of all ages, shapes, colors, and manners of dress. Some were watching the proceedings on the stage attentively, while others looked like they were bored out of their skulls and wanted to be somewhere else. But something deep down inside her knew that every last one of them was a monster, and every last one of them could tear her to shreds if they wished, and they would do just that if she didn't break free and get as far away from them as she could right that second. Fuck Andrew. He could take care of himself.

She struggled impotently at the hands binding her, like a scared dog trying to break free from a leash. "Let me go." Of course, they didn't listen. All the person holding her did was tighten their grip. "C'mon man, let me go..." she whimpered. Her captor, a man judging from the deep tone of his voice, just laughed softly and tightened his grip again, digging his nails into her skin. Her vision blurred for a split second.

Somewhere in the room, a hoity-toity sounding voice droned on about... something. She acknowledged it just long enough to decide that it was incredibly annoying. Occasionally, it would become louder, and a pair of very expensive looking leather shoes would walk in front of her. At one point, it stopped and another man's voice yelled out, followed by an angry sounding woman's voice and the sound of flesh hitting the wooden stage. The other man called out again and a full blown shouting match ensued.

_Run! Run!_

A voice not unlike her own joined the screaming. It didn't just growl at her, it pounded itself into her head, demanding that it be listened to above all the others. It wasn't demanding anything that she didn't want to do already, but it made her feel like that if she didn't obey it, her very soul would burst from her body and flee on its own.

And holy _fuck_, was she hungry...

She struggled to free herself again. Her captor's grip tightened painfully, his fingernails feeling like they had bored through the muscles in her neck and were directly touching her spine. The voice continued to echo in her skull. Somewhere in the distance, a man with a deep, throaty voice was laughing.

Then suddenly, all of the noise dampened. The only sound she was aware of was the sickening sound of metal slicing through flesh and bone and two fleshy thumps.

The sounds, along with a slight rush of air, came from Andrew's direction.

The second the air hit her cheek, Jo blacked out.

The next thing she remembered was a feeling of intense relief. She was drinking... something. Something wonderful and incredibly filling, like a Thanksgiving dinner after a week of fasting. Every mouthful relaxed her deeper than the strongest hit of pot, and yet charged her more than the strongest cup of coffee. It was as if someone was feeding her ambrosia straight from Mount Olympus. Ambrosia or some street drug that was capable of making her feel like Superman in the middle of an orgy. The thought of whatever it was possibly fucking her up later crossed her mind for all of a nanosecond.

Jo's sense of taste came back first. Apparently, ambrosia tasted like iron and salt, yet oddly sweet. Something that probably should have been an acquired taste, but was, at that moment, Jo's favorite thing in the world.

Next came her sense of touch. She was gripping something. Something large and clothed.

Her sight came next. The object was a large, muscular, scruffy man. Her face was buried in his far too white neck, her lips suctioned to his skin like a leech. The hot ambrosia like substance was pouring from him and down her throat.

"Shit!" Jo leapt up and threw him away from her. The man's slack body fell to the cold, tiled floor with a dull thump. His eyes hung open, with only the whites visible. His mouth hung open in what Jo's slowly panicking mind registered as a death rictus. She assumed as much because his entire upper body and part of the floor around him was covered in blood; the source of which was a large, gaping bite wound on his neck.

She looked down at herself. She was completely naked, and her chest and forearms were covered in blood.

"Shit..." She looked around. She was in a grey tiled cube of a public bathroom with a busted toilet, an equally busted sink, a mirror that was shattered in one corner, manual and cracked soap and paper towel dispensers, a round plastic trash can, and only just enough lighting to give whoever was in it just an idea of what they were doing.

She rushed to the sink and looked at herself in the mirror. "Holy shit..." Normally, she wasn't much to look at; dark blonde hair that reached her lower back that she never got around to getting trimmed, light blue eyes, small lips with a silver ring pierced through the right corner of her lower lip, and a hawk-like nose. At the moment, she looked like a cannibal. Dried and fresh blood covered her mouth and oozed down in streaks onto her neck and chest. The light makeup she had on was smudged, and her hair was in disarray. To top it all off, her reflection was... off. When she looked closer, she realized that the edges of her body were blurred, like someone had smeared Vaseline on the mirror in an outline around her.

She looked at herself over a few times. As solid as ever. She touched the mirror. There was nothing on it. _No... And I don't feel high... How much did I drink?_

She racked her brain, trying to piece together a timeline of the night. She met up with Andrew at her favorite bar in Venice Beach, like he had suggested a few days prior. She didn't tell Samantha or the rest of her roommates about her date until a few hours before, partly because Samantha really didn't like Andrew. (The other part was that she had just forgotten to tell them. It didn't seem like much of a big deal at the time.) Sam thought the fact that he didn't want to hang out with the rest of the group and never really gave a concrete answer when he was asked questions about himself was shady. Normally, Sam would just express her concern and Jo would insist that he treated her right and everything was fine and that would be it. But that night, they almost got into a fist fight. They had practice that night. Their first gig in months was next Friday, at a club rumored to be frequented by label execs no less, and they needed to be at the top of their game. But they had a week, Jo insisted, and it was just one date. Sam fell back on her usual argument of Andrew being creepy. Jo shot back that Sam was jealous over seeing her with someone else and that she shouldn't have listened to her father if she was going to act like a possessive creep whenever she got a new partner. The two then just screamed over each other while their two roommates, Derek and Chris, tried to perform damage control. It only stopped when Jo stormed out the door.

When she got to the bar, she grumbled about not wanting to talk about the fight and forgot about it somewhere around the third cocktail. Sometime when they were leaving, she vaguely remembered saying that she wanted to go to Pacific Park. Everything after that was a blur. There were some things about an awful goth night club, a motel, sex...

...Red... the theater... leather shoes, yelling, and laughter...

Andrew... Andrew was yelling. Where was he?

And if she was drunk enough to have trouble remembering things before, why did she feel dead sober? Even with the shock of the dead man on the floor, she would still have at least a trace of a hangover.

She glanced back at the man. It wasn't Andrew. Andrew was a brunet, not black haired. He was wiry, not a beefcake like the dead guy seemed to be. His hair was different too; a bit rugged with longer hair and a scruffier beard than most, but not full on mountain man. The only real flaw she ever saw in him was that he was a little on the pale side for her liking, but no one was perfect. ("I'm Irish, Jojo. When I go out during the day, the sun tries to kill me," he once joked.)

Did he just dump her in there with the dead guy and run off? No, that still didn't explain the theater...

"Holy shit..."

She knelt beside the man and pressed her ear against his chest, straining to hear for a heartbeat. "C'mon dude, don't be dead..." The thought of having to do CPR crossed her mind. She learned CPR in high school, right? No wait, she might have skipped that day. God, it was hard to think. Part of her just wanted to forget about the man and find some dark corner to hide in, but that wouldn't accomplish anything. Either way, at the very least she had to find a pay phone and call 911. But she didn't even know where she was... and her bag was missing along with her wallet. _And fuck me, I can't walk out of here looking like this. People will think I'm crazy._

A hard knock came at the door. Jo shot to attention like a gazelle that had just spotted a lion. "Uhh... Occupied!" It swung open anyway, and she froze.

If the woman in the doorway had any thoughts about the crime scene she had just walked into, she was certainly good at hiding them. The only physical reaction she offered up was a swift scan of the room and a blink. She was a picture of grace. Golden blonde corkscrew curls were piled in an elegant mass on top of her head and framed her soft facial features. A long black overcoat with a massive grey furred collar covered her body, contrasting with her pale skin. Behind her, a square jawed man with black hair in a business suit held what looked like a crossbow at the ready.

They were both monsters, and Jo had to fight down the urge to press herself against the back wall of the bathroom.

"Listen, this isn't what it loo-"

"What an awful mess," the woman said, a light French accent wafting from her perfectly rouged lips. Her green eyes regarded the sight with... boredom? Annoyance? Jo couldn't tell. Whatever it was, it wasn't the normal screaming freak-out that she was expecting. The French woman turned to the man. "Go tell the prince that she is done frenzying."

"Yes, Alder Seneschal," he replied before heading back down the hall beyond the door.

The woman finally looked straight at Jo, as if she had just realized that she was in the room. "You will be happy to know that even despite your outburst, the Most Merciful Duke of Los Angeles has seen it fit to spare you."

Jo looked at her like she had grown a second head. "What?"

"Here are your clothes," the woman reached down behind the wall on her side, picked up a bundle of fabric, and placed it on top of the trash can, "your shoes," she tossed a battered pair of black and white Converse next to the can, "and your bag." The black messenger bag was placed next to the shoes. "Clean yourself up and get dressed."

"Uhh..." Jo pointed to the man. "What about this guy? He needs to go to the hospital." Assuming he hadn't already kicked the bucket.

"Someone will be along to deal with him. Do not worry about him."

"Don't worry about him?! Dude's fucking unconscious!"

"He will be dealt with," she reiterated. "Ignore him and get dressed or I will suggest to His Grace that he change his mind about letting you live."

"Okay! Damn..." The woman shut the door without another word. _This is some crazy fucking mafia shit..._ Jo thought as she reached for her clothes. Was Andrew part of the mob? Did he fuck up and cross the mob? Did the mob even exist in LA? They certainly weren't gang bangers. Frenchy didn't look like someone who would willingly spend time in South Central.

Jo went to the paper towel dispenser and grabbed a wad of the scratchy brown squares. As she wetted them and wiped herself off, she discovered two things that, in the panic, had previously escaped her notice. The first was that she didn't have a stab wound on her chest. In the haze, she could remember the possibility of being stabbed. Surely, she would still be hurting from that. Maybe it didn't really happen or someone patched her up in the gap in her memories. Whoever that was must have been a miracle worker... The second one was, and this one was the most jarring, she wasn't breathing. Not involuntarily anyway. She could take breaths, and did so the second she noticed, but they felt pointless. She didn't feel better for doing them and didn't feel like she was suffocating when she stopped.

"I must be tripping and can't tell," she murmured. "I wanna go home." Go home, apologize to Samantha and the rest of the group, and call Andrew in the morning to tell him that she didn't want to see him anymore. Sam was right. Andrew was shady, even if he was approachable and charming. Admitting that was going to hurt, but it wouldn't be the first time Jo was wrong about a person, and Sam was usually very forgiving.

Eventually, Jo managed to get the blood and makeup off of her and pulled on her clothes: A black and white Green Day concert t-shirt with a heart shaped grenade on it, worn in black jeans with holes in the knees, underpants, bra, and shoes. A quick run-over with her hair brush and she was good to go. When she placed the brush back into her bag, she combed it for the rest of her usual items: Wallet (with her license and money), key ring, makeup, hair ties, cigarette pack, lighter, and her lucky drumsticks. At least she wasn't robbed on top of everything else.

The woman was still waiting for her when she stepped out of the bathroom. The guy in the suit was back and had brought along a few nearly identical looking buddies.

"Follow me," the woman said, turning to head down the grey concrete hall. As the two moved away from the bathroom, the men went into it.

"Are you gonna tell me what's going on?" Jo asked as she walked behind her.

"What is your name?"

"Jo Palmer, and that doesn't answer my question."

Jo could see the sides of the woman's face scrunch up slightly. "That is a man's name," she said in a tone that, to Jo, sounded like something in between confusion and derision.

"It's spelled J-O, not J-O-E. You know, like in _Little Women_?"

"That makes a difference? That one little letter?"

"Yup. That doesn't answer my question though."

"The Alder Prince will explain everything." The woman waved a pale hand dismissively. Her nails were long and painted a deep burgundy.

"I hope so. I apparently had a really fucked up night and the last few people I've met so far won't tell me shit. Like what the fuck happened to my date."

"Hmm..."

The then silent walk didn't take very long. Eventually, the hall lead to a small flight of stairs that opened up to the Nocturne Theater's stage. The first thing that caught Jo's eye was the massive elephant of a man standing near some discarded cabinets. It was the only proper word that could be used to describe all of him; tall and wide with leathery ash colored skin, ponytailed dreadlocks that looked to be as wide as her wrists, and a duster that looked like it was made by wrestling an actual elephant into submission, twisting its neck, and skinning it. On his back was a sword that was almost as tall and as wide as he was and looked to be fashioned haphazardly out of a giant slab of steel. Jo quickly guessed that she would only come up to his stomach if she actually got up the nerve to go over and compare their heights.

The other person of interest looked like he was made of money; expensive looking black overcoat; long sleeved light grey dress shirt with cufflinks; black and grey checkered silk tie; dark grey business slacks; short strawberry blond hair that had been carefully cut, styled, and hardened into place with product; thick but lightly shaped eyebrows; a strong jaw with a prominent chin and not a trace of facial hair... If you looked up 'businessman' in a dictionary, his face would be staring back at you. Despite being part of the deluge of dark clothing, one feature about him made him drastically stand out: Instead of the almost deathly pallor that his associates had, his skin was the healthy peach color that Jo expected it to be. He was looking out into the auditorium as he came into view, and flipped closed and placed a cell phone in his pocket just as the French woman's heels clicked onto the stage's hard wood floor.

They were also monsters, and part of Jo's mind tugged her backwards, urging her to flee again.

"Ah, there you are," the blond man said as he turned to them. It was the annoying hoity-toity voice from earlier. Jo unconsciously took a step back as he moved toward them, but fought down the urge to turn tail and run outright. If this was the guy that was going to explain everything, she figured it would only help her to hear what he had to say.

The French woman gestured to the man with a flourish and a bowed head. "His Grace Alder Sebastian LaCroix, Duke and Prince of Los Angeles."

"How can you be a duke and a prince at the same time?"

Both the Alder Seneschal and Alder LaCroix raised an eyebrow. "Miss Jo Palmer, do not speak to the prince until he has addressed you," the seneschal all but growled.

"Jeez, sorry!"

The prince gestured dismissively, much in the same fashion as the seneschal had earlier. "An understandable misstep, and those questions will be answered in time. For now, there are more pressing matters to attend to." LaCroix turned to the seneschal. "Thank you, Alder Tolbert. I can take it from here."

"Yes, Your Grace," Alder Tolbert bowed her head, her curls bouncing slightly as she started to walk off.

"If you're leaving the theater, go back to the office and wait for me there," LaCroix added without turning around. "I want to speak with you about something."

Tolbert glanced back at the prince, looking as if she were contemplating the order. "Yes... Your Grace," she finally said before heading down the side of the stage and toward the double doors leading out of the auditorium.

LaCroix turned to the man in the duster. "Wait here." The man nodded silently. He turned back to Jo. "Follow me." Even before the last syllable left his mouth, LaCroix was already on his way off the stage and into the backstage halls. Jo sprinted to catch up with him. "Now, first off: Allow me to apologize for the display earlier. It was not my intention to drive you into frenzy."

"Fre-?"

"Unfortunately, Andrew McCray, your sire, had not only broken one of the laws that I instituted to maintain order in this community, he had also broken one of the three traditions that all of our kind must adhere to, lest we jeopardize our very existence." It made sense. That whole mess earlier must have been a trial. But then the rush of air...

"As prince, it is my duty to-"

"You killed Andrew?!" Jo stopped walking and stared at him incredulously.

LaCroix stopped and turned to face her. "He killed himself the second he chose to ignore my praxis," he said, furrowing his brow. "He knew full well the consequences of his actions and he was suitably punished for them."

"You're not even giving me a straight answer about what he did! What is this shit?! Are you a mob boss?!"

"Miss Palmer-"

"Is this some fucked up prank that my friends are pulling?! Jesus Christ, I might have killed a man!"

"Miss Palmer-"

"I wasn't even conscious for it! I've knocked people out before, but I can't just kill someone with my bare hands!"

"Miss Palmer, look at me."

And she did, right into his eyes. He had very striking eyes; a mix of grey and light blue, almost similar to Andrew's eyes, in fact. It was something Jo didn't notice up until that point. Something she had to notice at that point, because the second she made eye contact with him, she felt compelled to keep looking at them.

"_Calm - down._" It was a very simple phrase, but the way he said it made her worries just... melt away. Why was she getting all worked up anyway? Tolbert said that the man would be taken care of, and there was nothing she could do to bring Andrew back.

She nodded her head. "Okay..."

LaCroix nodded in return and resumed walking. "Please understand that it was nothing personal. I am as much of a servant to the laws that govern us as everyone else in our community. I just have the added burden of bearing the displeasure of those who think the penalties for disobeying them are unfair. Of course, if I were following the letter of the law, you would have been put to death as well. But while your sire may have been a habitual criminal, I understand that you yourself had no say or knowledge of the crime that you were a victim of. Therefore, I have decided to take you on as my page." By that point, the two of them had reached the end of the hall and were stopped by an emergency exit. He turned again to face her. "In the eyes of the community I am now directly responsible for your education. Consider the task I am about to give you your largesse to me for this and bending the law in your favor."

"Can I make a suggestion?"

"Excuse me?" There was an edge of anger in his voice.

"How 'bout I just go home, you go back to your office, and we both forget that this ever happened? I won't tell the cops. I won't be in your hair. We'll both be... copacetic. How's that sound?"

"It sounds like nothing I just said got through to you. Under normal circumstances, you would be a pile of ash right now. You're going to refuse a task from the person that spared your life? The very same person, I might add, that is taking it upon himself to teach you the ways of our kind when there is no one else willing to do so."

"Look, I'm grateful, but I don't wanna get involved with whatever crazy mafia shit you've got going on here. I promise I won't tell the cops. I have a history with cops. I don't like 'em." By the time she had finished high school, she was one more charge away from a jail sentence.

LaCroix's chest noticeably rose and fell and his nostrils flared for a split second. "I don't have time to argue with you. If you won't understand simple reason, then perhaps you will understand this: You will either perform this task for me or I will have my Reeve come down here and send you to your final death as the law dictates. The choice is yours."

"...Fine, I'll do it." One couldn't really argue with a death threat.

"Excellent. In a few minutes, a taxi will arrive at the back of the building. It will take you to Santa Monica. I had a safe house there converted into a haven for you and I am granting you feeding rights within the neighborhood's limits." As he said that, LaCroix produced a tarnished house key from his pocket and held it out to her. Jo took it and turned it over in her hands. On its ring was a small rubber fob with the logo for a 'Trip's Pawnshop'. "Once you're there, you will be contacted by an agent named Mercurio. He will give you further instructions. When you are finished, you will report to my office in the Venture Tower. Do not return to your old home, and do not contact any friends or family while you are on this mission."

"Right..." Jo let out a wholly unnecessary sigh and tossed the key into her bag.

"When you return, we will work on integrating you into Society proper. Until then, I bid you good evening." With that, the prince turned on his heels and headed back towards the stage. There was no head bow, no politeness, just the poise of a leader who had finished giving orders to a subordinate.

It was only after Jo stepped out into the alley did she realize that the prince hadn't really explained what was going on at all.


End file.
